


A Song For You

by Madophelia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst, F/M, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:46:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madophelia/pseuds/Madophelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John couldn't save Sherlock when he fell, so he's damn well going to save him now he's got the chance. Neither of them allow themselves to think about the other while they are apart, the memories hurt too much, but building their way back is difficult and some things change in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will take a different song for every chapter. Made up of the very weird mix of songs found on my iPod on one given day (and it changes a lot) The number of chapters is off my basic draft plotting so its subject to change. 
> 
> _I remember when we kissed_  
>  I still feel it on my lips  
> The time that you danced with me  
> With no music playing  
> I remember the simple things  
> I remember till I cry  
> But the one thing I wish I'd forget  
> The memory I wanna forget  
> Is goodbye  
> Goodbye - Miley Cyrus

Hundreds of nights have passed much the same as this one. Except that this night marked something, was the solitary night of the year that brought it all back. He's told himself that lie too many times. Has tried to convince himself that the memories floated back only occasionally, that he doesn't spend nights staring across an empty living room at the space where a chair used to sit. He tries to tell himself that piling papers on every surface is just his way of living now, that the chaos and mess doesn't soothe that fissure in his mind, doesn't linger on that special nerve deep down in his consciousness somewhere out of reach. But it isn't true.

Hundreds of nights. Hundreds. He's sat here just the same, amongst the artificial chaos that has no place being where it is, remembering all the things his mind throws up in his lowest moments. Pictures images he wishes he hadn't seen, feels things he wishes he'd never had to feel. Reaches a hand out, in the all-too-often moments he's swept along by his other senses, tries to grasp at the hand that was too far away in the first place and is now further still.

This night though. This one does happen only once a year. It's an anniversary. Not of the goodbye, the one he wishes he didn't have to relive, today he gets a small reprieve. Tonight it's the annual remembrance of a hello. Except there had never been a hello, not really. There had been a 'Use mine' a proffered phone, his one luxury item offered up without a thought and then an 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'   
  
Later there'd been a handshake and a greeting but as far as formal introductions went, their first acquaintance had been lacking. Suddenly he's glad they never got round to it. Without a proper hello then goodbye meant nothing. And he didn't want to think about the goodbye. Not tonight.  
  
He's paused over his keyboard, hands suspended in the air. He wills them to move, he really does, but the words won't come. The blog still has that old post, with those old words of resilience, back when he still had some. Back when the words of defiance, of outright stubborn willpower protesting innocence had come freely. He still believes, still cannot accept he was ever told a lie, but it doesn't pour from him as it used to. It's hard to maintain anything but a private growl of rage in the back of his throat when no one is listening. And they stopped listening to him a while ago.   
  
He wants to write something, some message to let the masses know that he's still here. The comments in support dried up as quickly as the newspaper stories did. No doubt the prying audience moved on to other more relevant topics with a more active participant. By the time he could even look at the blog, after Greg had pulled him out of a bar at kicking out time for the hundredth time and told him to suck it up, told him that everyone was hurting and that he had no right to act like a child. By that time, the comments were old news. Now, a few people leave a message enquiring as to whether it was all true, or to leave their opinion about how untrue it all was in point of fact. But he can't even bring himself to argue with those faceless people either, let alone face anyone in public.

Despite Greg's best efforts he's been left alone too long. His rent, his bills, all taken care of by 'The British Government'. That's the only name he'll call him now, won't give the man who sold his own brother down the river the honour of a name, he is just his job, and thats just as bad. He swept in once the dust settled, signed papers and whispered in the right ear, John's not sure, but suddenly there were no bills landing on his mat and his landlady--not housekeeper, mind-- stopped bothering him for rent. By the time he surfaced from his drunken haze everything had been sorted and he didn't have the energy to fight it. He was swept along in the comfort of it all, at being allowed to stew in his own grief and call it coping. He was just working through it, he told himself, but if that were true he'd have gone back to see Ella after that first session after--well, after.

Because that separation exists now. Before and after. Like that single crack in his mind that leaks through the hurt, propped shut only by allowing himself select memories and avoiding others. The single line down his personal narrative is split into before and after.

It used to be pre-war and post-war. Still is, but the battlefield changed. There is still the fallen comrade, the brother-in-arms he couldn't save. There are still the flashbacks that wake him in the early hours in a cold sweat, a hand reaching out to one reaching back across that void. But there is no escape, no honourable discharge from this warzone. He walks this urban desert daily, sees the things that remind him of that war too clearly.

He's thought about leaving. Turning his back on the memories for good and starting fresh. Perhaps in the countryside, he could buy a cottage with a garden. Create a tranquil existence away from falling bombs and falling flatmates. He could churn butter or knit scarves, raise bees. No. No, no, no. Because there it is again, chasing him even in his escape fantasies, one more reminder to follow him into that tiny slice of peace he could carve for himself.

He begins to type. 'I miss you' comes out first, but the backspace takes care of it. The blinking cursor winks knowingly. His gaze slips to the right, as it so often does, to that small collection of pixels depicting the direct cause. He feels it, that dragging in the pit of his stomach, the tensions in his fingers pressure in his sinuses. He won't let himself cry, not yet, he's not quite there.

The picture looms. He's partially obscured of course, the flash washing out the intensity of his eyes, pale skin almost translucent, ethereal. Only John remembers that it wasn't quite that way. The slight flush of pink that rose in his cheeks or around his nose in the cold London air, he didn't fully appreciate it then, those tiny evidences of life. Now, as he stares at a washed out version in a hat he ridiculed, he can't see the vivid detail he longs for, cannot see the faint lines on his forehead or the creases that appeared when he smiled. It's all faded and dull, like the lacklustre daily routine John now calls his life.

His left hand flexes. The tremor that crept back as he walked away from the grave, after he'd said the final piece on the matter he would ever speak aloud, is running through his fingers once again. He has often raised his trigger fingers in times of stress, just to feel how steady they were, but now as they stretch automatically they falter, slip, the shot would have missed the target.

Thats the reason the gun is with Greg. Not because he's afraid of using it, he's just afraid that if he ever tried, his failing hand would miss, even at point blank range.

The page is blank again. The three words he managed to type using only those trigger fingers have been erased and John can't think of anything else to say. To the world, to himself or to anyone else. He contemplates the whiskey he knows is in the flat somewhere if he bothered to look. He probably left some lying around that he didn't quite get to when it was his medication of choice. Thinks better of it though, the doctor in him knows it wouldn't work well with the sleeping tablet he will take in an hour, and god knows he can't go without that.

At night, he sometimes manages to fend off the nightmares. They sometimes grant him the solace of a dream with a different ending. One where he didn't go back to where he was even though instructed, did go inside, went up to that roof and pulled him back, convinced him to live even if it had all been a lie, reminds him that he doesn't care, just live.

Sometimes his dreams speak of other times. Of humid breath in cold London air, huffed out in panting gasps from exertion, from excitement, from something unsaid in a glance. They speak of shifting boundaries to personal space, the casual touch in passing given without really realising. They whisper of a night spent swaying to music that wasn't playing, learning a waltz and a two-step to only the melody playing in John's head. And softly, much less than that secretive hushed tone, they murmur of soft parted lips brushing on John's own. It is a dream within a dream, a memory only half remembered, like a picture gone over so many times that the lines are blurred and moved, distorted from their original position so much so that John can't be sure if it ever really happened. Or whether its a memory planted by that crack in his mind. Something manufactured to ease his pain, a plaster across the wound left behind.

He closes the laptop. The picture disappears as the lid snaps shut and John stares at the gap left across the room. There was once a chair and a music stand. There was a violin and the chemistry set, there was an entire gallery of memory triggers in these so few rooms now stacked and arranged behind the door at the end of the hall. In a fit of pique one night John had pushed the chair and the music stand, the violin and the microscope anything in his line of sight that brought that rise of hot fury to the back of skull, to the other bedroom, the one that isn't his, and he'd closed the door on it.

He doesn't open it now, just stares at the gap in the room where the chair ought to be. Lets his eyes wander to the space where the music once floated from to lull him to sleep, that bright spot of soothing melody and caressing dulcet tones is dimmed now. People don't know, but he used to hum along as he played, even as he didn't play. John would catch him occasionally, head in his microscope or facing the back of the couch, his baritone hum emanating from his throat with the beautiful vibration of symphonies. To call it a hum is to do it a disservice, it may as well have been singing without words, it spoke directly to John's soul, to his heart almost. He would give anything to hear it again.

That whisper speaks now. Of a time his arms had encircled John, placed as a woman would, one hand grasped tightly in his own the other resting on John's shoulder. He'd hesitantly reached out for that lithe waist, curled his fingers only lightly, taking lead position but being pulled along to learn the steps. He'd been humming then too. The tune John had thought existed only in his head as he learned to dance had been rumbling in that eminent throat. Had sprung forth from the same cavernous brain that supplied those brilliant deductions, genius expressed in another form and John was just as impressed.

There had been no exultation that time. As always, John had followed where he led but all too soon the steps were learnt and he'd stepped away, the light pressure on John's shoulder vanishing, the warm palm no longer pressed against his own.

He lets out a slight hum himself, trying to conjure the rhythm from his memory. It’s impossible to recall it exactly and his knowledge of classical music only extends to notes travelling up the stairs in the early hours, lulling him back to sleep after the desert sand and sun lay in thick waves over his body as he woke.

He misses those distant notes threading their way up the stairs. There is no damper on the screaming static behind his eyes when they fly open in the dark now, no wandering tones to offer comfort. He is adrift, his bed a single lone island, marooned and unshared across the empty sheets.

It is as simple as anything to transpose that silent dance to his bedroom, to feel his arms around him again, simple to calculate how they would feel wrapped a bit tighter, how the palm pressed against his would feel running down his side, his arm, his chest, his-- But he won't allow himself that train of thought.

Its just a rise of adrenaline, mixed with the utter anguish. Normal, or so he tells himself, to confuse that intense pain and flip it, invert it to intense pleasure. It's fine, its all fine, when he imagines his flatmate as he wrings the reluctant orgasm from himself. Tries to feel anything but the numbing void by sinking into base fleshy feeling.

He rises from the chair, muscles slow and languid. Even the air around him drips like treacle and he finds it hard to wade through. He tries to shake it off and gather himself, prepare himself for sleep. Shower, pjs, medication then rest. Or so he hopes.

He flexes his hand once more releasing the laptop to the seat of the chair where he'd been sat. It shakes momentarily but holds. He lets out a sigh as he thinks of all he must do upon waking, reminds himself again of Sarah's affectionate request that he ring her as soon as he's ready to go back to work.

He'd seen her the previous week on a rare trip to the supermarket.

"John." She'd said, his name sounding like pity on her lips. "How are you?"

He'd shuffled his basket in his hands, made himself smile and greet her as an old friend.

"Where are you working now?" She'd asked and John could sense the silent judgement rolling off her in waves as he replied.

"Actually I'm in between things at the moment."

His voice sounded gravelly, caught in his throat after days of disuse. He'd probably spoke to Mrs Hudson a few days before, or answered one of Greg's phone calls about meeting him with only to decline, but he's interactions with other people were few and far between and he'd fallen out of practice somewhat.

She'd smiled knowingly, put her slim fingers on his arm and squeezed slightly as if as still had a right to his personal space. John had wondered, if he could take solace in her given the chance, lose himself in her soft skin and fragrant scent. Would it be enough to shake him from his perpetual sleepwalking?

Then he'd noticed the square cut diamond on her left hand and he'd stopped wondering.

"We could always use a locum at the surgery" she'd said he teeth and era sparkling as she shot him what John was now seeing as a genuine smile. Sarah was a doctor, like him, and the caretaker tendencies ran deep. "You should give us a call if you're looking for something. You know, once you're ready."

The last sentence seemed to suggest that a year and a half was plenty enough time to be ready.

He'd thanked her, moved so she was no longer in his personal space and tried to straighten his spine to a posture resembling someone who actually slept instead of tossing and turning for six hours before giving up.

"Bye John." She'd waved a small hand, caught the eye of an attractive man awaiting her at the end of the aisle, and left him alone once again.

John picks up his tea mug from the floor by the chair and turns to make his way to the kitchen, it's that moment, upon straightening up and rolling his shoulders he catches sight out the man in his doorway.

He jumps, not expecting to see the slight body propped up by his umbrella. But John's soldiery neves aren't done in yet and he attempts to hide his shock from The British Government.

It's perhaps a useless endeavour, his guest has always been quick to decipher his environment and if the quirk of his mouth is anything to go by he's enjoying the effect his unannounced arrival has had.

"John" his vice is pointed, sharp but curved like a scythe. Fitting, John thinks, the instrument carried by death is the perfect analogy for the man whose words sign his own brothers death warrant.

"What do you want?"

"Have a seat Dr. Watson"

He indicates to the sofa with his umbrella, his stance and body language would suggest its his flat and John is the guest. But then, that's almost probably true, isn't it?

John sits. Not because he feels amiable to this man or because he has in anyway acquiesced to his demands, but he feels there may be a fight on the horizon and he has learned to pick his battles.

John stays silent at the pointed figure makes his way over to John's chair and removes the laptop, holding it at arm's length as if it's too common for him to lay his precious hands on.

“There,” he says taking a seat and leaning his umbrella against the side, “That's cosy, isn't it?”  

“I’ll ask you again.” John says, his eyes set hard and dark, “What do you want? Only, you’ve not really bothered showing your face around here since you swanned in and took care of everything.”

Mycroft’s eyes scan him quickly, taking note of whatever it is he needs to see to continue. “I’m afraid the time has come for me to ask a favour of you Dr. Watson.”

“Oh really?” John’s arms cross over his chest and his jaw sets firmly, “Well you bloody well know where you can shove that don’t you?”

“If you’ll just hear me ou--”

“No.” John says standing up and taking a step towards the chair, “I don’t have to listen to you. Take your money, and your meddling and get out. I’ll pay you back everything I owe but I’m not doing anything for you.”

“John.” Mycroft says again angling his head slightly, the appraising look on his face. He swallows briefly, a gesture John would have attributed to nervousness if he didn’t know any better. “There are things you do not know. Things that, regrettably, were meant to be revealed to you in time. However, events have occurred that make the original plan... difficult. It has since fallen to me to explain to you things that would otherwise have fallen to someone else.”

“Will you just cut the riddles and get to the point so I can turn you down and get back to my life?” John flexes his hand a few times, surprised to find the tremor has ceased somewhat since his blood began pumping around his body. The anger pulling him from his haze slightly, it’s almost enough to make him glad Mycroft decided to pop by. Almost.

“Such a life you do lead.” Mycroft says scanning the room making a pointed glance at the empty space across from his armchair. He clears his throat, running a hand down his waistcoat, John had never seen him anything but unflappable but as Mycroft glances up at him from his seated position, John swears he can see a hint of fear in the government’s eyes.

“I’m listening.” John says gesturing with his hand before crossing his arms once again.

“What I have to tell you is decidedly... delicate. I am placing trust in the fact that you are a soldier by nature and quite acclimated to the more shocking aspects of life.” He pauses as this sinks in and John shuffles his feet, raising his eyebrows slightly to indicate he’s still waiting for Mycroft to get to the point. “The events of eighteen months ago regarding Sher--”

“Nope. Nope. You don’t get to talk about him.” John says racing forward only to reach the chair and not know what to do with the accruing energy in his fists. He reaches out without thinking, yanking hard on the collar and tie at Mycroft’s throat and hauling him out of the seat. “You sold him out to Moriarty, you don’t get to come in here and tell me anything, you don’t get to mention his name to me, do you understand?”

“John. Put him down.”

The voice from the door behind him is familiar and John turns to see Greg Lestrade, hands outstretched in a placating gesture.

“Greg?” John says, his hand relaxing on Mycroft somewhat, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“He’s with me.” Mycroft says in his grip, with a wave at Lestrade, “I’m fine Greg, no need to worry, John’s just a little upset.”

John relaxes his grip, and sets Mycroft back to standing, watching him fix his tie. he casts a wary eye between him and Greg.

“What do you mean he’s with you?” he asks before turning to Greg, “Are you serious?”

“Look, John, there’s stuff you don’t know. It’s all pretty heavy so you might want to sit down now. It’s going to get worse before it gets better, but Myc did what he thought was right and he’s more than made up for it. If you just let him explain--”

John lets out a bark of a laugh, “Myc?”

Greg’s face flushes pink to the tips of his ears.

“He’s with me? Myc?” John cocks his head, “Are we to expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?” John’s eyes level on Mycroft once more the picture of the unflappable British Government. He watches as his eyes flick to Greg so fast he almost misses it. He knows the quote registered with Mycroft’s memory but he didn’t count on how much it would sting John to recall it.

“That is, for the moment, neither here nor there.” Mycroft picks up his umbrella, twirling it in the carpet as Greg moves over towards John. “Regrettably John, we are running out time. I may have to be a little more blunt than I would have liked.”

Greg shifts into position behind John, defensively John thinks, as though waiting for him to do something rash.

“The events of eighteenth months ago surrounding Sherlock’s death are not as you think they were. John, it pains me to do this so quickly when it should have been him, but there isn’t time, his life is in danger and I’m afraid you are the only one that can help us get him out of it.”

“What? Who’s in danger?” John’s brows knit together, the lines in his forehead deepening.

Mycroft sighs, his eyes flicking to Greg once again as if seeking reassurance, “John.” He levels up with John, his expression softer than John has ever seen it.

Suddenly John understands what it is Mycroft is trying to tell him. He’s not sure how it sinks in after only a few words and he’s not sure exactly what happens next. But he feels Greg’s arms around him holding him still, holding him up, just holding him in place for one reason or another.

“Sherlock?” John asks. It’s the first time he’s said his name in a while, it burns in his mouth, feel alien and too large. It’s as if the word itself is enough to conjure his image in John’s mind if it ever needed a trigger. And suddenly he’s on the pavement in front of Bart’s again, gripping his phone tightly and not believing what is before his eyes. He hears it, Goodbye John and he’s sure he’s screaming but it all sounds a bit far away and he feels the couch come up to meet him and Greg sets him down. It’s expletives he realises, leaving his mouth. Abuse at Mycroft, at Greg, at God and the world. “What the fuck?” he repeats, over and over and over. “What the bloody fuck Mycroft?”

“John” Greg says crouching before him and setting a ground hand on his shoulder, “This is huge. I get it. But he needs you, he’s been trying his best to clean up Moriarty’s mess but he’s gotten himself in trouble. The guy that’s got him, Sebastian Moran, he’s military John and he’s saying he wants Sherlock’s army doctor to go head to head. We don’t expect you to do it alone but we need you to go in there as a distraction enough so we can get in there. We wouldn’t ask John, we really wouldn’t, this is not how it was supposed to happen, god, I wasn’t even supposed to know, and I’ve got my own issue with that, but there really isn’t any other choice.”

“Sherlock’s army doctor?” John says, “I’m not--I’m not his anything. He... He’s gone, he left he--”

“I know.” Greg says pressing on his shoulder briefly before moving away, giving John space. “You don’t don’t owe him anything, you don’t owe Myc anything. But John, if we get him back, if his name gets cleared...”

John doesn’t need him to finish. He knows Lestrade has been under some pretty bad restrictions at The Yard after everything that happened, he knows that if Sherlock’s name got cleared he could gain back some of the respect he lost. But John knows that he feels terrible for asking, knows that his job is far down on the list of what should be John’s priorities in this situation, but John also knows that he has to say something. He can see the small light of hope in his eyes as he thinks of getting his job back. His old life.

John considers the hurt, the smoldering, aching burn that has been his misery for the past eighteen months. He considers the raging beast inside him that was that staunch denial when Sherlock first fell. He feels that old stubborn determinations rearing its head, curling and writhing in his belly. He should feel betrayed, he should feel blinding rage, be punching his way out of this room, attacking Greg and Mycroft, leaving them with the lies and the hurt they’ve cause by speaking directly to the crouching beast of hope it John’s mind. It is that hopeful beast that guards the crack in his mind. Stalks back and forth along the rift, refusing to let it close. It is that spark of hope, of clawing, biting light that says his friend didn’t die that wins out now. There will be time later for the rage, right now, Captain Watson squares his shoulders, nods slightly once to affirm his own course of actions and turns to the expectant face of the DI and The Britsh Government.

“Right,” he says, “What do I do?”


	2. I Changed My Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And you know I played it all in here_  
>  Where everyone hides their darkest shades of fears  
> And I threw my whole night down the drain  
> You know cause everyone says that i'm not the same   
> Since I changed my name  
> I Changed My Name - Sugarcult

Sherlock Holmes is not losing it. He's perfectly able to handle this situation. He dives to the left as the blow swings across close to his nose. He's quick but having trouble coordinating himself, he barely gets out of the way before another blow is raining down onto him.

He's sharp. There should be more precision than this, isn't that how it works? It's supposed to make him think better so why can't he deduce this idiot's moves before he makes them?

He sees the hand raising again, judging the speed, trajectory and force easily, the numbers computing along the same as always but for some reason his body doesn't listen to the calculation. He knows he should move to the right now, his assailant having changed tactics, but his feet won't move right. He's vibrating beneath his flesh, squirming so much he's having trouble suppressing the shake and just moving where he wants to.

The lights are getting brighter, but it's dark. Just pockets of colours blinking out at him staccato but it doesn't match up with the thudding bass music that runs through his chest. Reverberates that sticking point between his pectorals that has been bothering him for days. That strange longing for familiar scenery that hung around on his travels only seems to be made worse upon arriving back in London.

It shouldn't be like this. He'd wanted to see London, he'd wanted to be in England again and here he is. Among the cracked pavements and the crowded streets. He's hiding in plain sight amid the mid-morning commute or flying under the radar with his old drug connections. But it isn't enough, his chest still aches with that confounding longing for something unnameable.

Mycroft's words are suddenly rattling around in his brain. Thrown up from that room in his mind palace that stores all of Mycroft's most annoying observations. It's echoing along corridors and invading rooms, rolling up against that locked door that looks like 221B. Sherlock shakes his head and tries to push it all back, force it away from that dusty wing he dare not visit. Not yet, not until this is over.

His words are like ice, like much of his brother, jabbing at his insides, reminding him he'd been warned about this.

"You're different now Sherlock. You can't just reacquaint yourself with these... People and expect it to be like last time. You have other priorities now. I told you it was not an advantage and it won't be in this situation either."

Sherlock shakes his head to rid himself of the echoing warning, trying to shove it back into that cavern where he keeps it, slamming the door.

But the movement of his head distorts his vision again. He feels the music now, buzzing around him, through him. It's a chemical reaction, simple, a stimulus in his bloodstream delivering messages to his neural pathways. He's felt it before, but it was probably a slight miscalculation to assume his old dose would be appropriate. He hadn't adjusted for his rehabilitation period, he'd tried to slip it on like an old coat and found it didn't fit anymore.

That doesn't make Mycroft right. It's just a slight miscalculation, all experiments need adjustments made to the formula before any results can be extracted.

He feels the next blow land and loses his footing entirely. He feels himself shrink down to a small point, flat on his back. The floor is hard, sticky under his curls and the odour rising from the bodies surrounding him sparks in his memory as something familiar. He’s been here before.

He closes his eyes, just for a moment. Cutting off his vision centres to allow his brain to catch up, without the influx of data he hopes his hard drive can reboot, use the stimulant to fuel itself rather than short circuiting. He finds his mind spiralling instead, doors of his mind palace throwing themselves open, its all he can do to keep his back against that locked door. Wrench the lock a little tighter, prevent what’s inside from tumbling out. Caring is not an advantage, and he doesn’t need to feel all of that right now, not while he’s trying to claw his way back.

He’s not sluggish. Rather the opposite. His body is sending off sparks, twitching and jumping but the connection between his limbs and his brain has been cut. He feels the drag on them as someone moves him but he can’t fight back against it. His eyes still closed he imagines himself back in his dingy hotel room the night before. It’s just a b&b in a backstreet of London. A glorified hostel full of backpackers and idealistic young couples imagining romance in an undignified hovel, finding it amidst the wreckage because they barely glance away from each other’s eyes.

He’d laid on the thin yellowing mattress covered in a threadbare sheet, feeling the cold but disregarding it as irrelevant to his current train of thought. He’d allowed his thoughts to wander, just to the edge of what was allowable. He’d come so close to having it all finished, he was back in his familiar city, feeling London’s concrete wrap around his fragility as soon as he touched down, once he was wandering through its streets in the early hours he almost felt content. But it isn’t finished yet, he is not yet home.

He’d felt himself push against that closed door in his head, caressed the lock and gently toyed with stepping inside. Once wouldn’t hurt, just to feel the comforting presence of a life he’d thrown away.

Logically he knows that’s not it. He didn’t throw it away. It wasn’t a power play or an act of defiance against being called a liar. He could have dealt with that, kept his head down and resisted caring about what everyone was saying, he’s done it before. It wasn’t the threat against his life that had given him no choice, it was the threat against what’s behind that door that forced his hand. But logic seems to fail him on this point, he can't help but feel the loss of his old life. It aches. Burning down his chest and in his head, threatening to compromise the integrity of that locked door, reduce it to cinders so all he's kept inside can charge over him in a mad rush. Laying in that forlorn bed and breakfast, so close to his old life yet so far away, and knowing how far he'd have to go to drag himself back there, he had never felt that loss so fiercely.

Mycroft had picked that moment for his regular check-ups, Sherlock answered gruffly, his brother’s interference rankling against his sensitive mood.

“Oh please, it can't possibly be time for another one of these can it?” He hoped the arched eyebrow and the sneer had come through in his tone. Mycroft being a Holmes, he needn’t have made as much effort as he did, but it hadn’t been a burden.

“Less of the usual diatribe Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed with all the patience of a man who has put up with Sherlock one too many times. “I did not call for our customary back and forth.”

“Then what on earth could you want brother dearest?” He can’t stop the sarcasm from filtering down, not that he’d tried very hard.

"To impress upon you the importance of terminating your current intended course of action."

Sherlock groaned, "Mycroft, I am perfectly capable of handling things without your interference."

"I have no doubt that you believe that to be true." His brother's voice was clipped, he sounded tired. He'd done his own fair share of work in the past year. He'd tracked people down, pointed Sherlock in the right direction, forged enough identification to bring down a small country and called in nearly every one of the favours he was owed, just to keep Sherlock safe, to bring him home. He'd even, at Sherlock's request, taken care of-- no. Not yet.

That's when he started talking about Sherlock's changing priorities. About how different he was.

"I may be living under a different name now Mycroft, but I am the same person I was when I left."

Sherlock heard his brother's soft sigh along the crackling phone line. "Yes. That is exactly my point."

Suddenly his hackles were up, almost determined to carry on with his plan just to spite his brother. Moran was the last target, the final strand of Moriarty's web and once he was taken out, Sherlock could go home. There was nothing that could stand in his way, not even his brother's feeble protests.

"Sherlock." Mycroft urged after a few moments of silence. "Moran has taken up with those people precisely because he knows you can't follow there. Since he cottoned on to the fact that you survived the fall he's been researching a way to get to you. The drugs... he knows you can't follow there without significant risk to yourself."

"Then he would be wrong." Sherlcok snarled, "I am fine. There is nothing wrong with me, I can handle it."

"For your sake Sherlock, I hope you are right." Mycroft's voice took on a judgmental air, "We both know what the outcome would be if you are wrong."

"Nothing a short stint in rehab can't fix I'm sure." The sarcasm was rife, he wasn't even trying to hide his distain for the idea.

"Quite. But it was the tactics Moran might employ next I was referring to." Sherlock could see the self satisfied smile. He was sure it wasn't that he enjoyed hurting Sherlock or bringing up old memories, Mycroft just liked having the upper hand in all their conversations and he knew just how to get it. Just like Moran would know how to get the upper hand in their confrontation should it come to it, the same way Moriarty had known.

"That will not happen." He growled, aware his speech had been reduced from its usual formal cadence.

"I assure you I will do everything in my power to protect J--"

"Yes you will." Sherlock interrupted "I don't care what it takes, he does not become involved in this, you make sure."

"To the best of my ability." Mycroft assured, which was as close to a promise as Sherlock was going to get. "But if comes to a choice between you and him, you should know that my priorities lie with you."

"You'd offer him up for some sort of trade off?" The shock must have showed through his voice because Mycroft's next sentence, while not gentle by any means, had that tone that suggested he was trying to choose his words carefully.

"I will do what is necessary."

Sherlock let the silence bleed through for a moment, felt the door in his mind flex slightly with the weight of what was at stake pressed against it. He shoved once, jamming the door in the frame to ensure its continued resilience.

"It will not come to that."

Laying on the floor, his eyes closed to centre his running train of thought, Sherlock has the hideous and grating sense that Mycroft may have been right. It lasts only a minute. Sherlock had tracked the right dealer, sampled the product to prove his legitimacy, he was so close to Moran, this was just set back.

He'd almost convinced himself. The cocaine is in his system but he's beginning to get used to the feeling, regaining control over his limbs, relishing in the added intensity the drug gives to his rage. But the head injury he'd sustained from the connecting blow is clouding his thoughts. What the cocaine added to his mental faculties, the concussion took away. He's just the bad side of slow, foggy and sluggish against his best wishes.

He opens his eye as the people dragging him drop his legs. All at once he is  surprised that he appears to have travelled quite a distance, possible he'd passed out at some point in the thudding at his right temple is anything to go by. The room is carpeted, the burn on his skin where his shirt had ridden up gives off heat uncomfortably. The thud of the music is still present but far away, still in the nightclub then, the flashing lights aren't present and the way the sounds echo in the space suggests a smaller room. Back office if he had to guess, and he doesn't like guessing.

He tries to lift his head, to move his leg, anything. The head injury makes it difficult but the bindings on his ankles and--now he realises--on his wrists, make it impossible.

His vision is slightly blurry, his mouth dry. Stupid. There is always something. Cocaine must have been cut with something, spiked, for lack of a better term. It's not his own intolerance, he hasn't miscalculated. There are more pressing matters but it satisfies him to know he was right.

There is movement behind him but his cloudy head won't let him turn fast enough to see who it is. The dealer disappeared once the fight broke out, he should have known something was amiss when two random skinheads jumped him out of nowhere. Military, that much he'd deduced before the drug had kicked in, but not the good kind. Not the sunkissed, crack shot, army doctor kind. Mercenaries, guns for hire, his brain had supplied before overheating and fizzling out under the narcotics reign.

It isn't either of those thugs that approaches Sherlock now. He feels the large hand on the collar of his shirt and he feels the material strain as it is used to lift his head clear off the floor. His eyes struggle to focus as they bring the shaggy bearded face and cold, dead, dark eyes of Sebastian Moran in to view.

"Sherlock Holmes" he announces his name like a victory call, "Very much alive and well I see. That is unfortunate."

"For you maybe." Sherlock manages to slur, his cotton wool mouth working slightly better than before.

"I shouldn't think so." Moran says letting go of Sherlock's collar all at once allowing his head fall back to the floor with a dulled crack. "Jim gave me a bit of advice on how to play the Holmes boys."

He'd heard the before hadn't he? Somewhere. He does a cursory sweep of the palace in a way that allows him to stay lucid, but comes up with nothing. Whatever memory that sentence is sparking its buried deep, somewhere he doesn't want to look. His focus shifts to the locked door once again but he turns away.

Moran doesn't notice his slight lack of concentration, he's crowing like he's won some sort of battle, like nothing can stop his victory now.

"I knew it'd be a matter of time." He's spouting words, flourishing every sentence with dramatic hand gestures, one fist locked around the grip of a handgun, his posture is still military but all the safety measures learned in basic training have obviously been chipped away at since his discharge. "All I had to do was wait and you would come to me. That's the beauty, you'll follow me anywhere, right into the very place you shouldn't go. But it's where you want to be isn't it?"

Moran crouches near Sherlock's head, his breath hot and foul on the detective's cheek. Sherlock's head rolls away, squeezing his eyes and opening them repeatedly, trying to focus.

"What--" he starts, but Moran continues on regardless of Sherlock's feeble attempts at speech.

"I didn't think it would be quite so easy. But you took it without even testing it, honestly, didn't anyone ever teach you not to take candy from strangers?" He laughs, the sound releasing in a sharp bark that projects spittle over Sherlock's skin.

Moran's hand reaches to his collar again, yanking him up so his back is clear of the floor as well this time. The hands of another person grab his feet and he is positioned roughly on a chair, additional bindings added to secure him to it.

His vision is slowly returning and he can glance around himself. Moran is pacing in front of him, leaving Sherlock's eyes to rove over his captor. Combat jeans, original not reproduction, from his first tour. Handgun, not army issue, procured on the street, impossible to tell how long ago but the ridge in the back of his belt suggests he's in the habit of carrying a weapon tucked down the back of his waistband. He's clearly not cut his hair or beard in a number of months, probably since he realised Sherlock was on his trail. That's good. It means he's been preoccupied with the idea, scared, on the run.

"Sherlock Holmes" Moran says again. Slowly, with relish. "Yeah, Jim told me all about you."

"Really?" Sherlock replies, watching as Moran turns, delighted to see his captive has finally found his voice. "So he told you about the cocaine. Fine. Not a huge leap. You're just going to kill me now is that it? Dull."

"Oh no no no Mister Holmes," Moran smirks, running the butt of the gun down Sherlock's cheek, "That would be boring. I intend to do to you exactly what you did to me."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "And what, pray tell, is that?"

Moran presses the gun further into Sherlock's skin, watching as the detective winces at the slight pain. "You took Jim from me. We were partners, and you separated us."

"If you think Jim Moriarty considered you anything more than a puppet you are mistaken."

Sherlock feels the gun leave his face for a second, before it's brought back down in an arc, slamming against his cheekbone. He feels the blood break through the skin and trickle down his face.

"I don't expect you to understand what we had, but you will refrain from commenting on it." Moran takes a moment to compose himself. "The point you are failing to grasp Mister Holmes is that history will repeat itself."

"I don't--"

"No of course you don't." His smile is rough and vicious behind his facial hair, sharp teeth glinting amongst the wiry fuzz. "I had a scope on Dr. Watson. I watched as you fell and I walked away as per my orders.

Sherlock winces at the name, the door in his head resembling 221B comes away slightly where he'd jammed it in the frame, the lock holds but it wavers.

"My orders were that if you were dead, Watson could live. Are you there yet Mister Holmes, do you see what I mean?"

"I'm not dead." Sherlock says his wrists and ankles straining in his bonds, trying to find an opportunity of release.

"And so..." Moran prompts.

Sherlock's gasp of understanding is all Moran needs. He barks laughter again, his movements gleeful and fluid as he strides about the room.

"And the best part is, he'll come to me!" The teeth are pointed, and all of them are on show, "He'll come to save you, he'll fight his way in here and we won't even try to stop him."

Sherlock shakes his head "He won't. He'll never believe I'm alive."

"Don't be stupid, I won't be telling him."

Sherlock squints, trying to comprehend the twisted logic Moran is trying to employ.

"I thought you were supposed to be a genius." He jeers stopping dead in front of Sherlock and glaring at him for a few seconds before looking over his shoulder to signal one of the silent men in the room.

"Then how do you expect to get him here?"

"Those events are already in motion."

Sherlock feels the man approach him from behind, a hand grips his shoulder and tugs him back to sit flush against the back of the chair. His muscles strain where they are bound and his head is forced up to meet Moran's gaze.

"Your brother is very attentive." Moran says leaning close, "He was positively devastated to hear you'd decided to stay with us a bit longer."

Sherlock tries to wrench his head from the grip upon it, succeeding only in managing to tip it sideways slightly, exposing his neck.

"I told him I wanted your army doctor to come out and play, that I'd be more inclined to say goodbye to you if he came here instead. Neat, isn't it? You gave your life for him and now he's going to do it for you." He nods once to the man gripping Sherlock.

He feels the needle tip acutely against his flesh and is vividly aware when it breaks the skin. He feel the cold of the drug wash over him in seconds, it fuzzes his brain, dragging him into unconsciousness bit by bit.

Before the lights go out Sherlock understands it all completely. Mycroft had told him point blank that in a fair trade, Sherlock was his priority. He tries to swim against the rising slumber, running over the mind palace, tension slipping from his limbs. He feels his jaw go slack and his head dip, his breathing evens out and physically he knows he's under. The mental faculties switch off slower, the walls crumbling around him, the inevitability of his situation falling through the disappearing ceiling. He watches, unable to move as the door, the one he'd been struggling to keep closed for so long, withers and cracks. It swings wide on its hinges and Sherlock droops under the weight of his hopelessness.

In the final seconds, as everything behind that door tumbles out and coats him from head to foot in everything he'd been trying to avoid. As the pure unadulterated intensity of feeling rises in him, as he sinks below the crashing waves of sleep once and for all, Sherlock isn't sure if he says it out loud. He isn't sure if the word is spoken or thought or even exists, but its there, swirling around the charred remains of his memories. One word that he'd avoided speaking, interrupted when people had said it, flinched when it had happened and he couldn't control it,

"John."


	3. The Cave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But I will hold on hope  
> And I will let you choke  
> On the noose around your neck
> 
> And I'll find strength in pain  
> And I will change my ways  
> I'll know my name as it's called again
> 
> The Cave - Mumford & Sons

John feels the familiar weight of his firearm pressed into his palm, measures its comforting presence before sliding it into the back of his waistband, reveling in the chill of reassure he gets from having it there. 

“You know what to do?” Greg asks for the one hundredth time. 

John sighs, “Get in, verify Sherlock’s presence, alert you. Do nothing else.” Even at these words he knows that isn’t how it will go. They are kidding themselves if they think Moran won’t search him on arrival and find his weapon and the panic button. They are doubly denying even basic thought process if they think John would stop at a reconnaissance mission without taking a pop at Moran. 

He slides his gaze to Mycroft’s face and sees the expression there means he’s not entirely in as much denial as John had thought. He’s completely aware of what this situation is, and that he’s offering John up at sacrifice. Somehow, John doesn't mind. He was so close to ending it all anyway, doing it for a purpose instead of just to close the crack in his consciousness seems like the best course of action right now. It’s all fine. 

“Time to move out Dr Watson.” Mycroft says, using his umbrella to gesture the way forward.

John gives a single nod. Short, sharp, perfunctory. There is no need to say much more, he’s aware of what he’s walking into. His rolls his shoulder, feels that welcome surge of adrenaline course down his spine and takes a deep breath. Suddenly he’s all Captain Watson, leaving the good doctor behind and crawling that tight space between military training and outright rage. 

Making his way into the building is easier than he’d anticipated. It’s a generic nightclub, ordinary really and pulsing with Saturday night revelers. It had been late when Mycroft and Lestrade turned up at his flat, with a few hours to prepare and run John through the plan it was now tipping over to the early hours but the doors were still admitting the small trickle of party seekers. 

Jeans and his jacket did little to discourage the doorman from assuming he was another patron, and perhaps they were waiting for him anyway, it hadn't been made clear. They’d disregarded the need for armor, knowing that to go prepared for a fight would only antagonise Moran further and they didn't want to risk it. It was highly probably he’d forgo his side of the deal anyway and kill Sherlock after he killed John, but they’d wanted to minimise that as much as possible. 

He wasn't supposed to have help either, another reason to keep fancy equipment out of the picture. Mycroft was supposed to deliver the message to John, send him on his way and then duck out. It was a testament to how much Moran had underestimated Mycroft and Sherlock’s affection for each other that he assumed Mycroft would be able to. 

Really, the Holmes brothers cared deeply, despite their unique and, at times, annoying inability to show it. Mycroft had told him the first time he met John he ‘worried about him constantly’ and John knew Sherlock wouldn't have been able to stay out of it either had the situations been reversed. Mycroft was prepared to sacrifice John for the his brother’s life, and John was just as happy to go along with it. 

Perhaps it was the revelation that his best friend was alive after all, that brought out his unshakable desire to ensure he stayed that way. He’d watched as Sherlock fell from that roof, under the impression that he hadn't been able to save him from the demons that plagued him, unable to tell him that it didn't matter if he was a fraud or wasn't, unable to tell him... everything. 

John squared his shoulders again as he got through the door and began casting a soldier’s eye over the scene. Spotting the back door he’d been directed to, he began making his way through the thick crowd, keeping to the perimeter for a quick escape should he need one. 

Upon approach he noticed a surveillance camera covering the door and made sure it caught him, folding his arms over his chest he waited for the next step of the game. 

“Doctor Watson.” 

People arriving behind him and saying his name was getting a little old. He felt the hard stubborn press of a gun muzzle in the base of his spine as his own weapon was unceremoniously stripped from him. 

“Nice and easy now.” 

The door before him was opened and the muzzle pressed heavier into this skin, biting against his flesh uncomfortably until he moved forward. 

“Steady.” John warned with a tone known to make new recruits weep. But something told him the owner of the firearm pushed up against him was no rookie. 

“Move it.” 

John couldn't get much of a read on the guy. It wasn't Moran, John doubted he’d have left Sherlock’s side to retrieve him so it was some minion of his doing the heavy lifting. Counting the one at his back, and the one that opened the door that was at least two extra bodies he may need to fight against should this thing go sour. 

John grunted once as the cold metal bit into his spine once again and finally moved through the door. 

He did a cursory sweep once he was through the door, his instincts taking over, directing his eyes around the room. It wasn’t a big room, a fairly standard office; desk, filing cabinet, computer. The only disruption in the otherwise average facade was the desk chair pulled to the middle of the room with a slumped figure bound to it and the rather shaggy looking mercenary standing over him. 

“Captain Watson.” 

John couldn't tear his eyes from the collapsed body in the chair. Thin, frail, hair overgrown and obviously in a bad state, there was still no mistaking the world’s only consulting detective. 

“Sherlock--” John started before the gun in his back was pushed hard into his ribs, moving him to the side with a snap of the wrist. He tried to maintain his planted feet and staunch posture but he stumbled slightly as he moved, unable to look away from the back of the bowed head. 

“Now now Captain Watson, is that any way to conduct yourself in front of a superior officer?” Moran said. He gestured to the rough looking bloke that was shoved John into the room. The gunman kept his handgun trained on John as he flipped John’s own Sig Sauer over in his hand and passed it the small distance over to Moran. 

“You two can go now.” Moran said, “Watson won’t be any trouble” He turned to face John placing the Sig on the desk beside him, “Will you?” 

John remained stoic and projecting a calm facade despite the running vitriol in his head against Moran and the pounding in his chest at the sight of Sherlock. Why wasn't he moving? 

Moran noticed the tightness of John’s glare and tutted loudly. He reached forward, grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s inky curls and wrenched his face to eye level. 

“Mister Holmes, we have a guest” He twisted the hand in they detective’s hair to turn his face around to John. “On your best behaviour now, your army doctor is here.” 

Moran’s voice had taken on a slightly sing-song quality sending a chill down John’s back at the reminder of Moriarty. But it evaporated quickly and John was soon drenched in a coat of foreboding at the sight of Sherlock’s wandering gaze. 

His eyes were barely open and registered no recognition as John searched his face. The detective’s cheekbones were thrown into stark relief by the overhead light, showcasing how malnourished and sick he was. The small slit of those verdigris eyes John could see were milky and faded with pupils shrunken to pinpricks. 

“What have you given him?”

“Ah, of course. _Doctor_ Watson.” Moran sneered. He released Sherlock’s head and watched as his neck hung loosely once again. “Nothing he hasn't taken before I can assure you. A little bit of this, a little bit of that.” 

“Speedball.” John sighed eyeing Sherlock’s loose stupor. He was out of it, for sure, but despite looking incredibly high he didn't look too injured. A slight bruise was forming on his face, recognizably from a good right hook, and he was far too thin but he wasn't convulsing or reacting in an overtly bad way to the drugs so John took comfort that once he came down he might be alright. 

At that moment, his military instincts shouldered past his concern and took the reins again. Moran was training his weapon on John, there were two, possibly more, guards outside and John was unarmed. Taking stock of this, he remembered he still had the panic button secreted in his back pocket and Mycroft, Lestrade and various members of the police force as well as whatever government operation Mycroft had roped in this time, waiting just outside. 

Carefully, without it seeming like a conscious movement john attempted to bring his hand to his back pocket, perhaps he could press the button before drawing attention to himself. Unfortunately, luck was not in John’s favour for the umpteenth time that day. 

“Captain Watson.” Moran warned, the gun still fixed on John.

“Moran.”

“That Colonel Moran to you.” He sneered.

“From what I hear, that title was stripped from you some time ago.” John said staring into the cold black eyes of the mercenary. 

“As was yours Captain, but I always think a proper understanding of rank adds a certain formality to proceedings.” He glanced down at Sherlock as if contemplating whereabouts he ranked, surely civilians don’t end up tied to chairs. Although, John thought, it wouldn't be the first time. “Now,” Moran continued. “On to the reason you are here.” 

“I know why I’m here.” John said, “The exchange. My life, for his.” 

Moran smiled, as if John had said something delightfully interesting. “Oh no Captain. I’m not going to kill you.” 

John seemed to understanding the beginnings of that implication before Moran had chance to say it. His whole body seemed drawn to his friend, bound and subdued on the chair, a frightening shadow of his previous vivacious self. His feet took half a step forward towards Sherlock across the tiny space and he was close enough to see the dark curl of hair at his neck in stark relief against that pale skin. There was no hint of that secret flush of life John was accustomed to. Just an expanse of vulnerable flesh exposed up to Moran as his head dipped forward, chin resting on his chest.

“No.” 

“I’m going to kill _him_ and you are going to watch.”

John hissed out a breath between his teeth. he didn't know what to do with his hands. They itched for his gun laying on the desk mere feet from where he was standing. They longed to untie Sherlock’s bonds, hoist him into his arms and flee. 

“Why?” He asked, seemingly the only thing he could ask in this situation. Why kill Sherlock first? Why go to all the trouble of bringing John here if that’s all he wanted to do? Sherlock wasn't even conscious enough to take him anything that was going on, he couldn’t have killed him and John would have been none the wiser, could have carried on with his life thinking his friend had committed suicide off of St. Bart’s rooftop.

“Jim is dead.” Moran hissed. “He died on that roof while I was too busy keeping my scope on you. I didn’t see, I didn’t know.” 

Moran began pacing at this, wild and unorganised and John took the moment to reach around to his back pocket. Suddenly Moran abandoned his post next to Sherlock and threw himself across to John. The butt of the gun crashed down on John’s skull and he felt the skin break and a trickle of blood make its way down to his eye. He was on his knees, vision slightly distorted from the blow and Moran dragged him inelegantly across the room and dumped him at Sherlock’s feet. 

“You saw.” Moran said taking back his composure slightly, a foot needling close into John’s side. “You saw him die.” 

“I didn’t.” John protested, “I didn’t even know Moriarty was dead.” It was the truth. John had little understanding of what had occurred on that rooftop before he watched Sherlock fall. 

“Not Jim!” Moran said, the rage and frustration evident in his voice that John was _getting it_ quite yet. “You saw Sherlock fall, yes?” 

John squeezed his eyes shut, trying to bring the room back into focus. He was so close to Sherlock now but he couldn’t bring his face into detail, he wanted to look at him, to check his eyes and hope for some recognition, some sign that he was aware of anything at all. 

“Yes,” he whispered, “I saw.” 

“Then you got your satisfaction.” Moran’s voice was low and the sing-song quality vanished at this. no longer and homage to his dead boss’s cadence, his words were all his own, ushered forth with hatred and pent up anger as the moment he’d been waiting for was quickly arriving. “I want mine. I want to see that look in your eye up close, I want to know what its like to watch the one you care about die. I missed it the first time, I was too far away. But now, now I have the chance to see it, to really know what its like when you watch.” 

John shook his head. “I don’t--” 

“Captain Watson.” He was regaining composure now, bringing his arm up, holding the muzzle against Sherlock’s face. “You will watch this man die and I will watch you. I will know what it looks like when I kill the one person you love in this world and you are powerless to stop it. Then, I will let you go. To live with that knowledge and to recall this moment over and over in your sleeping hours and again when you wake.” The click of the bullet into the barrel was unmistakable.

Even with his hazy vision John could see the dip of Sherlock’s flesh around the gun. He felt the cold bite of the metal as if it were pressed against his own cheek and it drew from his a powerful wave of determination. Just stall, just get to the panic button and stall.

“I have already done it.” John said, bringing some measure of control to his voice. The blood still dripping from his head wound, eyesight still blurry, he looked up at Moran. “That is already my life Moran, I can tell you what its like to watch. I’ve done it before.” 

“This is different.”

“How?” John said sliding his hand around his hip as though adjusting position. Moran stared intensely at where his weapon rested upon Sherlock’s face and didn’t notice when John’s fingers finally closed around the panic button. _Not long now._ “How is this any different? I watched him fall, I have lived with it for eighteen months and you’re right. It’s always there, when I’m asleep, when I’m awake. It follows you around. I can understand why you feel the need to do this, I’d want to know if it was normal. If I had somehow gone crazy when I think I can hear his voice, when I see his face on the street. I wonder. Do other people go through this? If they do, how do they get on with their lives?”

“But he’s here.” Moran said, “You got him back, you can’t have him back. I don’t get Jim back.”

“I wouldn’t have.” John said, “If you hadn’t called me here I wouldn’t have seen him again. He left me.” 

There was too much truth in these words, too much honesty and yet John couldn’t stop talking until backup came to get him. Faintly, he heard the music from the dancefloor stop and he knew he didn’t have to stall for much longer. 

“That’s not true.” 

“It is.” John insisted. “The last time we spoke before the phone call he said he wanted to be alone, that alone protected him. I was angry, we fought. I called him a machine. He wouldn’t have come back, he finally had that alone time he wanted, why would he have come for me?” 

John thought he saw Sherlock tense, heard a faint groan in his throat from where he sat. The three bodies were too close and John was still too hazy to really see if it Sherlock really had moved. There was humidity and sweat and fear in the air, John took a deep breath of it and hoped it was nearly over. 

“You know what its like Moran. Whether you watched it or not it still hurts. You still feel the loss.” 

“No.” The hiss was audible, loud and echoing around the room. “I have to see.” 

John moved quickly, launching across Sherlock’s body, reaching for the Sig on the desk as he knocked Moran’s gun from its position against Sherlock’s face. his hand collapsed around the cool metal, bringing it up at he heard Moran’s shot fire off behind him. 

It didn’t take half a second for Moran to recover his aim and John to wheel his arm round, his own weapon locked on to the Colonel’s forehead. 

“Don’t.” John said, his voice a rock of calm in his ocean of uncertainty. He was awkward spread across Sherlock. Having shoved his body backwards against the chair, his knee digging painfully into John’s ribs. The doctor was one foot planted on the floor, leg bent at the knee the other cast wide out from himself. It wasn’t a perfect stand to be aiming from but he was certain if he pulled the trigger, he wouldn’t miss. 

At that moment the door behind them slammed open and everything happened at once. There was a flurry of movement, bodies filed into the room, shouting and stomping into the small space. John felt the body beneath him stir for definite and turned in surprise, his gun hand dropping slightly. 

As the shot rang out from a gun, too close, too loud and too unexpected. John stared into the open eyes of Sherlock Holmes and finally saw recognition. The whole thing lasted half a second but John heard it, the low baritone of Sherlock’s voice mingled in with the sound of the gunshot, becoming one with that violent sound.

A loud bang and “John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been ages. I know. I'm so sorry!! 
> 
> I've moved house and was doing a temporary job but now I'm settled in the new place and working part time for now so I have a little extra time to spend on this. I've been listening to the playlist a lot and I can't wait to write it all. I'm getting excited about it again which is good. 
> 
> Thank you so much for the views and comments and kudos. Hopefully the next bit won't be too far behind, there is a bit of a cliffhanger there and I don't want to leave it like that.


	4. You found me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please don't wake me from this high  
> I've become comfortably numb  
> Until you opened up my eyes  
> To what it's like  
> When everything's right  
> I can't believe  
> You found me
> 
> You Found Me - Kelly Clarkson

Sherlock was falling. He felt the rush past his skin, the flip of his stomach as gravity dragged his body at maximum velocity towards the ground. 

He jerked awake just as the ground rushed up to meet him. He spasmed against the sheets but found himself flat on his back in a hospital bed. 

Disorientated for a moment, Sherlock gripped the cotton mattress cover and stabilized his balance against the bed. He was alone in the room and his head felt thick, heavy and lolled against the pillow. Slow, as though shifting through a fog to come into focus, the previous nights events trickled back to him. _He left me.... Why would he have come for me?_

He groaned despite himself, his memory was patchy. Leading up to the fight was as clear as day, each piece of data catalogued and filed away in the right room of the mind palace. He remembered tracking Moran’s operation to the nightclub, remembers blagging his way in with the drug pushing cronies before being jumped by those two skinheads. 

A miscalculation on his part meant he’d come face to face with Moran a little earlier than expected and was a little worse for wear where he did.The memories fizzle out as the second shot entered his system and began their stuttering re-emerging with John’s voice so close behind him and then right there, pressed so near to him. The opened door in his mind that had been holding back all the John-related data had no hope of closing ever again. It felt like an open sore and feeling the ache and pain in John’s voice was like rubbing salt in the wound.

He cast his eyes around the room and tried to lift his head. A bout of pain shot through him. 

“You really shouldn’t move,” a voice said to his right. 

“Since when have I listened to advice from you?” Sherlock replied, his voice croaky and bit deeper than usual from disuse.

“Indeed. A trait, I fear, that landed us in this situation in the first place.” 

“Us?” Sherlock said. God, even raising an eyebrow hurt. “Funny, I seem to be the only one in any ‘situation’. You look fine from where I’m sitting.” 

The silence stretched out. punctuated with the slight gasps and groans of pain as Sherlock shifted himself to a seated position. “Where is he?” He asked without meeting Mycroft’s eye.

The elder Holmes span the tip of his umbrella against the tiled hospital floor and quietly cleared his throat. “Giving his statement to Lestrade” he said, “I’m sure he’ll be here momentarily.”

“Is he--” 

“Mad? Upset? Confused? All of the above I should imagine.” Mycroft’s glance bored into Sherlock but Sherlock did not turn his head. “This could have been done with much more subtlety Sherlock, had you only listened--” 

“I don’t listen Mycroft. It’s been established.” Sherlock sighed and cast his eye to the door.

“He hasn’t been doing well.” Mycroft said with a grimace, as though he somehow felt himself at fault or shared some of the guilt with Sherlock for that. 

“As I have so recently been enlightened to” Sherlock said feigning disinterest and turning back to face his brother. “As much as I appreciate the input and all the help or whatever” he waved a hand as though to swipe it away “I can handle this on my own.” 

“Quite.” Said Mycroft, disregarding Sherlock’s flippancy and dusting off his jacket. He got to his feet. “I should be going,” he said, “Many pressing issues to be getting on with.” 

“Don’t start any wars” Sherlock said turning his head away agin as though to end the conversation on his own terms. 

“No promises.” Mycroft quipped uncharacteristically. 

There was a pause as Mycroft made his way to the door. 

“What that a joke?” Sherlock said picking his head up and wincing, “I believe the DI has made you soft.” 

“Well,” Mycroft blushed, “The less said about that by you the better.”

“You're the last person I expected to be defending it. I thought caring wasn’t an advantage?” 

“It’s not.” Mycroft said hovering in the doorway, “But who said not caring was one?” he lifted his umbrella in wave before leaving Sherlock alone once again. 

The nurse follow behind to prod and to poke tediously at him. She checked his vitals, issued him some paracetamol-- despite his pleading for something stronger-- and promised to return with food. 

Sherlock screwed his face up. “I won’t eat it” he argued with a pout. 

“You will.” 

His head wheeled around to the door of its own accord, disregarding the flash of pain that shot through him, his vision swimming from the sudden movement. He watched speechlessly as the nurse made her way from the room leaving them alone. 

“John.”

The older man made his way into the room, his gait almost at a march. He was almost at Sherlock’s beside when he paused momentarily. He seemed to contemplate something and Sherlock felt the heat radiate from his body, offering warmth and calm and healing. Everything he’d been missing while he was away. 

“John” Sherlock repeated, scolding himself internally for the benal greeting. The word seemed to shake John from his trance and, much to Sherlock’s disappointment, he moved away from the bed and sat down in the chair Mycroft had recently vacated. 

“You’re awake,” was his only comment. 

“It would appear so.” 

“You’re alive.” 

“It would appear so.” 

John’s mouth shifted to a terse line. “I can’t--” He stopped with a sigh. “Not yet, I don’t want to. Not yet.” 

Sherlock nodded. John looked tired, he’d had very little sleep, possibly none at all. He’d lost weight, 11 no, 12 pounds since they’d last seen each other. The tremor in his hand had returned even though he was trying to hide it. Most of all, he was angry. This wasn’t a shouting kind of angry, it was much more sinister. This was the calm before the storm, the quiet deadly threat of what was to come. 

“Want to run me through what happened last night?” Sherlock asked, hoping to divert John’s attention away from his rising rage for a few moments.  
“Where do you want me to start?” John asked with one of those patented shrugs that suggested Sherlock was yet again at the root of his troubles. 

“Well,” Sherlock said, trying to keep the whole situation logical and control the urge he was having to read out and touch John, just to prove to himself he was really there, really home, with him. “I remember getting there, coming face to face with Moran, listening to him outline his plan to go head to head with you...” he trailed off.

John gave him a single nod to continue.

“Then he dosed me again and I blacked out.” 

John seemed to process this for a moment before flexing his shaking hand and laying them both in his lap. 

“Right, well. I guess I should start at the beginning.” He cleared his throat, “I got there in the early hours. You were pretty much out of it. He;d given you a speedball which was... probably more than you’re used to going by how strung out you were.” 

“I’m not using.” Sherlock interrupted, “I’m not shooting up again it was just that one time. For the case, I had to get close to Moran without him suspecting.”

“Twice.” John corrected. “Once, you took yourself and then he dosed you, but you’d already taken it voluntarily by then.” 

“It was for a case, John. I had to.” 

“And there's nothing you won’t do for a case it there?” John asked. His voice was steel and his glare hard before he caught himself and continued. “So I got there, he took the gun, threatened to kill you there was a scuffle and--” 

“He didn’t want to kill me” Sherlock said, “He wanted to go head to head with you, that was the whole point of you being there.” 

“No.” John whispered, “he wanted to kill you and have be watch. The guy was crazy, I don’t think he knew what he wanted.” 

Sherlock recalled the snatches of conversation he remembered from the previous night and examined the reasons John would be holding that information back. Potentially, he thought and abbreviated version of the story was better for Sherlock in his current state. Though there didn't’ seem to be a need in Sherlock’s opinion. 

Doubtless this was linked to some sort of sentiment he didn’#t understand. John was usually the one to help him navigate the subtle nuances of human interaction and Sherlock felt adrift as he had when he was away to know that he couldn't’ ask him about this one. 

“So,” John continued,. “there was a little scuffle, I signaled to Mycroft and Lestrade, they moved on our position and we managed to get out.” 

“That’s all?” Sherlock asked. 

“Well you were awake then,” John explained, “You know the rest.” 

“I...” Sherlock shifted slightly, feeling feeble and weak under John commanding stare. “My memories are not reliable... The data is corrupted. Could you, Please?” 

“Moran’s dead. I shot him.” John shrugged. A different one this time, writing off his actions with nonchalance. “I’m not sure I meant to, but...” 

“Well,” Sherlock said, “That’s done.” 

“Is it?” Said John, suddenly raising his voice and knitting his brows, “That’s just it?” He got to his feet and paced to the bottom of the bed. “Because it doesn’t feel done Sherlock, not by a long shot.” 

Sherlock stared intently into John’s angry face and geared himself up for the conversation to follow. “What do you want me to say?” 

“What the bloody hell do you think? You can’t just waltz back in here and expect me to understand because I don’t. Not at all. Are you staying now? Are you back in London for good? Or are you going back to whatever brilliant life you had while I was stuck here grieving?”

“It was far from Brilliant John, I was--” 

“I couldn’t care less.” John said, “I couldn’t care less what you were doing out there. But are you? Are you back?” 

“Would you like me to be back?” Sherlock asked. 

John looked incredulous. If anything it seemed to make him more angry which had not been his intention at all. 

“Sherlock.” John pinched the bridge of his nose, “I want to know what your plans are now.”

“I had planned...” Sherlock felt lost again, wanted to reach out and touch John. He was closer that he had been in a while and yet he had never felt further away. “Moriarty;s web is finished with Moran. I had hoped to come home when it was done.” 

“Home?” John asked.

“To London.” 

John nodded. “Is that still the plan?” 

Sherlock contemplated for a moment. “It is if you want it to be.” 

“Then I would... very much like it... if you stayed.” 

“Ok.” 

John shifted his feet slightly, pursed his lips and then seemed to come to some sort of decision. “right,” he said, “I’m going to go get some coffee because some of us haven’t had the luxury of being passed out for the past few hours.” 

There was a few moments of chuckling that Sherlock hoped would break the tension but John seemed to remember himself suddenly and stand a little straighter, knees locked a little tighter, left hand flexing rhythmically. 

“Then Sherlock,” he pointed as he made his way to the door, “you are going to tell me what happened on that rooftop.”


End file.
